


Wearing a Face That She Keeps In a Jar By The Door

by QueenOfAllCorgis



Series: A Kind of Magic [3]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Changeling!John, Discrimination, Fae!John, M/M, Paul is NOT a vampire and feels very strongly about it, Supernatural creatures are known but not accepted, baobhan sith!paul, dryad!george, mystery!paul, supernatural!AU, tags will be updated as we go, werewolf!ringo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24601171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfAllCorgis/pseuds/QueenOfAllCorgis
Summary: Two weeks after his mother died John Lennon starts having nightmares about the earth crushing him. They may not just be dreams.
Relationships: George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: A Kind of Magic [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778086
Comments: 28
Kudos: 69





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the same universe as my Queen fic A Kind of Magic. You don't have to read it to understand this story.
> 
> Quick rundown, supernatural beings are known and live among humans. They try to stay hidden to avoid discrimination or even death.

_"You were unsure which pain was worse - the shock of what happened or the ache for what never will."_

_-Unknown_

The dreams started two weeks after his mother died. 

John was used to falling asleep with tears on his face. He was used to pulling his quilt up to his chin, biting onto the fabric, and sobbing until he was just too exhausted to stay awake. He was used to waking to crusted salt on his cheeks. 

He dreamed of the earth.

He dreamed of being deep in the earth, surrounded by stillness and dark. The roots shifting minutely around him, almost breathing. He could feel the cool damp of it and was _quiet._ He was connected in a way he had never been before. 

Then...then it became too much. The weight of it started pressing on his chest, forcing the air out and leaving no room for new breath. His ribs ached and popped, searing agony racing through him. He couldn’t scream, he couldn’t gasp in a breath, he couldn’t-

And then he woke. 

John always shot up in bed, gasping and scratching at nothing. The first time he woke from the dream he saw Mimi watching him from the door, her lips pursed and her eyes worried. 

_“It was just a dream.”_

But John didn’t think it was. 

If anything, the waking world was what felt like a dream.

The home he had spent most of his childhood in was becoming less like home. He felt a sense of unease, like he was a stranger in his own house. Shadows seemed new and even Mimi seemed different around him. 

And John understood why. 

He was lost. He was lost and angry. 

His mother wasn’t perfect, far from it in fact, but she was there. Unlike his father who had fucked off long ago, his mother was there for him. She was the one who pet at his hair while she hummed, smiling softly. 

_“You’re something special John Boy.”_

_“What am I mama?”_

_“I’ll tell you one day but today is not that day.”_

And now that day would never come. 

Just the thought shattered his heart further, the pieces burying deeper into him like shrapnel. John missed her so much he couldn’t breathe sometimes. Those were the times he just had to move, wanting to find something to feel besides heartbreak.

Unfortunately, those times led him into trouble. 

The pub was always noisy enough for him to fade into it, loud enough so he could avoid the whispers of _that’s Julia’s boy...so sad_ and just forget. After his mind was hazy enough he would pick a fight with someone, anyone who looked like they would be strong enough to really hurt him. 

Then he would be thrown out of the pub and lay on the damp road, not giving a damn who saw him. Let people judge, he didn’t fucking care.

“Now, don’t you look a sight,” he blinked his eyes open to see a familiar face looking down at him. 

“Isn’t it too late for you to be out?” John was proud at how his voice was barely slurred. “Your da’s gonna give ya a wallop.”

Paul chuckled and held out a hand, cocking his head when John didn’t take it. “Oh come on, let’s get you home son.”

Finally, John took his hand and let himself be hoisted to his feet. “Is late.”

“Mmhmm,” Paul smiled and let John loop an arm around his shoulders. “It is, that’s why you should be home in bed.”

“You should be home in bed.”

The younger boy laughed. “I’m runnin’ an errand for my da, not getting plastered and startin’ fights.”

John rolled his eyes. “Your da better not have you doing chores on gig nights.”

“He would never,” Paul turned them both onto John’s street, making sure the older boy kept his feet under himself. “He knows better by now.”

“Good,” John nodded. Jim McCartney was a stern man but a fair one and it warmed John’s heart to see how supportive he was of their music. Would his own father be like that? Better not think of it.

“I might not be running errands the next time you decide to get drunk off your ass though,” John snorted, he always thought it was funny how the younger boy could sound like a mother. “Seriously. Next time, get a cuppa and go to sleep.”

The smile slid off John’s face and he stared at the ground, trying not to stumble into someone’s flowers. “I don’t wanna sleep. I have nightmares.”

Paul was silent for a long time before he squeezed John’s shoulder. “I had nightmares after my mom died too.”

He blamed the drink entirely for how his eyes burned with tears afterwards. “Does it even stop hurting so fucking bad?”

“No, it just hurts different,” Paul looked so sad that John stopped them both and pulled his friend into a hug, suddenly desperate for contact. If Paul was surprised he didn’t show it, instead hugging John back tightly. 

“I don’t think I belong here...like on earth you know?” He whispered, burying his face into Paul’s coat. “I’m wearing this fucking costume of a human being and it’s falling apart. Nothing feels right anymore.”

Paul hummed and nodded, squeezing his arms tighter around John. “Have you talked to your aunt about it?”

“We’re just ghosts in the house now, haunting each other,” John mumbled. 

“You should,” Paul let his hand slide up until it rested at the back of his neck. “Maybe she can tell you more.”

“What are you? One of those witches from the paper?” John tried to joke but it fell flat. Joking about witches who had, just last week, been burnt alive in their home was never really much of a laughing matter. Supernatural beings were better left to storybooks and songs, ignored in real life. 

“No,” Paul pulled back and smiled sadly. “Let’s get you to bed, huh?”

They walked the rest of the way in silence until they reached the front door of Mimi’s house. Paul stepped back from the stoop, eyeing him cautiously. “You’ll be okay then?”

“Yeah, yeah,” John waved him off. “You could come in, you know.”

“Not your house, not your place to let me in,” Paul shrugged and John rolled his eyes.

“Fine then Mr. Manners,” he grumbled and finally got the door open. “I’ll see you tomorrow at rehearsal?”

“If your hangover doesn’t get you before then,” Paul laughed. 

Maybe it was the alcohol, or the way the moonlight hit Paul, but in that moment he was struck breathless by the younger boy. Even though it was rather late into the night he was _glowing._ Paul’s pale skin looked luminescent, his eyes shone brighter than John had ever seen, and his smile made his heart jump. 

“Sleep it off John,” Paul patted his shoulder and the spell was broken. 

“Yeah,” John nodded and shut the door behind him, confused as to what had just happened. He peeked out through the window but Paul was gone. Part of him, the exhausted still drunk part, wondered if he had imagined the whole thing. 

As quietly as he could, John creeped up the stairs to the bathroom. All he wanted to do was clean the cuts from the fight and collapse into bed. Mimi would have a fit at his injuries but she would be furious if he got blood on his pillows. 

The faucet squeaked loudly when John turned it on but he quickly dampened a towel, scrubbing at the dried blood under his nose and under his eye where the man’s ring had cut him. The blood was a bit stubborn to get off but the sting of breaking open a scab never came. Confused, John squinted into the mirror to see perfectly unblemished skin under the blood. 

Not a bruise.

Not a cut.

Nothing. 


	2. Chapter 2

_In my heart I know the truth, but my mind cannot accept the reality of what this all means - Loung Ung_

He was going to ask. 

Now...

Now...

John let out a huff, blowing a bit of hair that had escaped from the gel off his forehead. The question, the worry, swirled painfully in his chest, so intense now that it ached when he took in a breath. The words were on the tip of his tongue but he hesitated to break the joking, relaxed atmosphere they had established in the room.

After his mother’s death he took some time from the band. Music didn’t have the same appeal, the songs didn’t come, and he couldn’t stand to be around the other boys. How could people smile, laugh and play when his entire world had ended?

But...the world kept turning. The pain surprised him sometimes, striking hot and sharp or lingering like a burn just under the skin, but it hit differently than before. His bandmates started playing again and he found himself wanting to join, desperate to find something to distract himself from his reality. 

From the memory of his mother being lowered into the ground.

From the anger and hate that flooded his body.

From...the strange things that were happening. 

John wasn’t stupid. He knew that something was different. He saw it in the way bruises faded almost instantly or in the way his skin knitted back together. He saw it in the way he needed less sleep, instead spending most of the night writing. He wasn’t _right_.

But, he just had to ask. He had to know. 

“What do you think about supes?” He blurted out, stopping George in the middle of a story. 

“What?” Paul asked, eyebrows nearly disappearing into his hairline. “Supes?”

“Yeah, the magic folk...the freaks and whatever. What do you think about them?” John tried to ignore the pounding in his heart. “I read in the paper that a herd of...what were they...elves or something were moving through Manchester.”

Paul glanced at George and one of their annoying, silent conversations passed between them with quirked eyebrows and small frowns. 

“They’re alright,” George finally said and Paul nodded. 

“You think so?” John sat on his amp, studying them carefully. “You would be friends with one of them?”

For a long moment, Paul just fixed him with a stare that made him look so much older than his sixteen years. “I suppose. They’re just tryin’ to live aren’t they?”

“But, they aren’t human. These things are like...” John’s shoulders shrugged. “They’re hiding. I mean, they could be anywhere or anyone. The bloke serving us at the pub? He could be a...hobgoblin or whatever. That doesn’t make you a bit nervous?”

George shifted and let his guitar rest on his hip. “What is this about John?”

They looked uncomfortable and that was telling enough for John. These were his friends, his best friends if he had to be honest with himself. They were the people who stuck around after his mother’s death when others had drifted off. Still...maybe it wasn’t the time to bring up the worries he had.

When was it a good time to say that he thought he maybe wasn’t quite human?

After that his heart wasn’t entirely in playing. They riffed a bit on their old stuff, agreed that they all needed to start looking for a drummer, and then started packing up. It wasn’t the same as the rush of performing or the thrill of recording but it was nice. 

The wind was bitingly cold as they walked out of the building, collars pulled up tight around their throats. No one else was on the street, obviously avoiding the chill coming in from the sea. The three of them hurried down the road, waving at George as he turned a corner to go to his own home. 

Paul managed to be quiet for all of five seconds after they split from George before he turned to John. “Why were you so strange?”

“Huh?” John focused on trying to get his shaking fingers to be still long enough to light the cigarette he held between his lips.

“What was all the talk about the supes?”

Finally he got it to light and used the first few puffs to try and avoid answering. Of course, Paul waited patiently and kept those too big eyes fixed on him. The smoke drifted into the cool air as John let it out through his teeth.

“You ever met one?” He asked, not able to look at Paul.

“No,” Paul shook his head. “But you don’t always know right?”

John pursed his lips around the cigarette. “But you do, right? I mean, they aren’t human so they can’t hide everything.”

They turned the corner to John’s street and Paul lengthened his strides, face set in a frown. “They aren’t human John but they are still...people.”

“No they aren’t,” John snorted. “No more than my cat is a human.”

Something ugly passed over Paul’s face and it was so out of place that John was actually struck dumb by it. Then, Paul set his jaw and stepped in front of John, blocking his way. John dug his boots into the slush that had gathered and frowned. 

“Are you a supe then John? All this denial makes me wonder,” Paul lifted his chin to meet the taller boy’s eyes. 

“I ain’t no supe,” John growled back but his heart beat just a bit faster. 

Paul hummed and let his eyes trail over John from top to bottom before meeting his eyes again. He turned and kept walking, making John trail after him. They approached Mimi’s house and John grabbed the gate, pulling it open.

He intended on stomping into the house, ignoring how childish it was to run away from Paul. Instead he helped and yanked his hand back before cradling it to his chest. 

“John?” The younger boy was by his side in a flash, brows creased in concern. 

An ugly, deep burn was seared across his palm. It throbbed with pain and was rapidly turning shiny red. Panicked, John yanked the hand back before Paul could see the wounds heal. He could just imagine the look of revulsion and horror on his friend’s face. 

But...the burn didn’t instantly heal. 

It began to puff in a blister, skin pulled too tight and it _ached_ but it was still there. They both stared at it for a moment before Paul looked up at him with his too bright eyes. 

And John ran.

He spun around and made it into the house in just a few long steps, slamming the door behind him. John pressed himself against the door and held his hand to his chest. 

“What in the world is all that racket?” Mimi called from the sitting room, peeking through the door with a frown on her face. When she saw John, wide eyes and scared, her face softened and she walked up to him cautiously. “John? What’s happened?”

He didn’t say a word but let her look at his hand. Mimi’s lips pursed as she looked at the burn, fingers lightly moving over it and sighing when John hissed. 

“I just touched the gate,” John murmured. “That’s it. I just touched the gate and this happened.”

“It happens when it gets too cold,” Mimi said softly and the first hint of _wrongness_ flared through John’s mind. “Frostbite.”

“This isn’t bloody frostbite!” John snapped and Mimi glanced up to glare at him.

“Don’t use that language.”

“It’s not frostbite, I’m not stupid,” he sucked in a breath. “And I’ve been able to heal right quick. A cut is gone in a few moments but _not this_.”

Mimi stood silently, eyes still fixed on his burn. 

“Mimi,” John whispered and her face crumpled. “Please...please tell me what’s going on. I’m...I’m scared.”

Her breath hitched and she looked up, eyes bright with tears. Mimi reached up to cup his cheek and gave him a sad, sad smile. “Come on. Let’s go into the kitchen. I’ll fix up your burn and we’ll talk, alright?”

Any anger he had felt was replaced with a deep exhaustion. He slumped in the chair and winced as Mimi placed a cool compress to his burn. Still, it wasn’t the kind of exhaustion that craved sleep...it was just a simple desire to _stop._

“Did you know I had a son once?” Mimi asked, voice soft. 

“No.”

“He was born far too early. The doctors said he wouldn’t last more than a few days with how sick he was. The...he was so small, so fragile. It was amazing he could even take a breath,” a grimace passed over her face. “And I knew there was nothing I could do. All I could do was watch my boy die.”

“I didn’t know that,” he whispered. 

“I prayed and prayed and prayed for something, anything to take his pain...and...and your mother came,” Mimi sat back, combing a few out of place hairs into order with her fingers. “She had also just had a son. Her kind had cast out her child, so she came to me.

It was simple; we would trade. My son would go back to her world and be at rest. I wouldn’t have to worry or be afraid of him dying in agony. Her son would be cared for in this world and grow up as a human. I would...I would get a child to love and care for and my son would be at peace.”

“What am I then?” John breathed, heart leaping as she hesitated. 

“John, you are a changeling.”

He blinked at her, the words tumbling in his mind. A changeling? The little goblin creatures from storybooks that tormented parents? He had seen the pictures and heard the stories. He knew that people had _killed_ their own children over it, their fear that a monster lived in their home overcoming their love for their child. 

“John, John,” Mimi scooted her chair closer and took his good hand. “Tell me...what are you thinking?”

“That I’m...I’m some kind...I’m a monster,” he breathed and Mimi shook her head, tears finally spilling over her cheeks.

“No, darling no,” she reached up to stroke his cheek again but he pulled back. “You aren’t. Your mother wanted you to have a _life_. She wanted you to be happy and knew that it would never happen in that world. They call the fae ‘the good folk’ and that is what you are, you are good.”

He blinked rapidly, letting out a long breath. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“You’ve heard the stories. Supernatural beings are being killed, even hunted for sport. I wanted you to be safe and so did your mother. She was going to tell you when you turned eighteen but...”

“She died,” John whispered. 

“Yes, she did. It wasn’t even a sure thing if you were going to display any fae tendencies,” Mimi sighed. “The magic could have stayed dormant and you would never have known.”

“Imagine that.”

They sat in silence for a good long moment before her shoulders shook in a silent sob. “I love you John, I love you like you were my own.”

“I love you too,” John said softly and she nodded, wiping at her eyes. “But...what do I do now?”

“You hide, you hide and you stay safe.”


	3. Chapter 3

_ The best of community does give one a deep sense of belonging and well-being; and in that sense community takes away loneliness _

_ Henri Nouwen  _

When John was told they were going to play in Hamburg he had expected...more.

He had hoped for crowds of fans, elegant hotel rooms and glasses of champagne to get silly from. Instead, they were crammed into dark, dank rooms that smelled like mold and were perpetually cold. The clubs were full of smoke, the bartenders were icy at best, and they didn’t even get free drinks unless they charmed a few women who lingered behind. 

Still, John tried to keep his chin up and smile through it. They were performing at some of these legendary clubs, who knows who could see them? Some big time producer could be sitting at a table and next thing they knew, they could be signing a contract. 

That thought was the only thing that got him through the dreary performances. The promise of  _ what if. _

The performance had gone rather well and they bowed off the stage to drunken cheers. John blew a cheeky kiss at the audience and slipped behind the stage to their too small rooms. He carefully put his guitar in its case, making sure it was stashed under his bed and glancing up to see Paul doing the same. 

“Let’s go out and greet our fans, lads,” Stu cackled, rubbing his hands together. 

There always was a high after a performance, a rush that John had never felt anywhere else and one he wanted to chase over and over. The boys spread out around the club, mingling with the locals and a few of the members of the other band who were also staying there. 

John ordered himself a large water, smiling sweetly at the unimpressed bartender, and sipped on it as he surveyed the scene. Pete and Stu were pounding down shots, flirting obnoxiously with the girls around them. George was sitting at a table, accepting a beer from the drummer of Rory Storm and the Hurricanes. Those two had gravitated together almost instantly, joking and chatting most evenings away.

And Paul?

It took John a few moments to find Paul. The younger man was in a darker corner of the club, eyes bright as he smiled at a red head who was pressed far too close to him. 

Part of John wanted to stalk over to Paul and shoo away the girl just so he wouldn’t be alone but that wouldn’t be fair. Paul would probably never forgive him for driving such a pretty bird away and he really didn’t want to listen to his bitching all night. 

Maybe he should just go back to the room and try to fall asleep despite the cold. 

“Entschuldigung?” A heavily accented voice broke through his thoughts and he blinked a few times before focusing on the girl in front of him. 

“Sorry love, my German is terrible,” he shrugged and the girl smiled brightly.

She was rather lovely, slim and pale with light hair. She didn’t seem the type to be in a smoky loud club. She seemed the type to be passing out baked goods at a church fundraiser or something but...a pretty face was hard to turn down.

“Ah...” the girl looked thoughtful. “You play good.”

“Oh! Well, danke,” John nodded at her and she giggled. 

“Come?” The girl quirked a finger at him and motioned to the door. “We go?”

“Well, I would be a fool to say no to that,” John quickly gulped down the rest of the water and followed her out. There was a bite of chill in the air but the girl didn’t seem bothered, even with her terribly thin dress. 

John shrugged off his leather jacket and placed it over her shoulders. The girl gave him another smile and hooked her arm through his. How dare Mimi ever say he wasn’t a gentleman?

“I’m John,” he said, pointing at himself and she nodded. 

“Hello John. I am Sofie,” she led him down the sidewalk and he couldn’t help but notice that there were less lights and noise coming from the buildings around him. Was he being too optimistic in hoping that this lovely girl was taking him back to hers? Hell, he would be happy to just go to a late night eatery. 

Sofie hummed as they walked and kept turning him down various turns, bringing them deeper and deeper into the city. Finally, she brought him down an alley and stopped.

“Yeah...where are we?” There was one door but it wasn’t anything John wanted to go near with the trash and strange liquids pooling around it. 

“Dance,” Sofie motioned to the door and then knocked. “It’s club.”

“This is a club?” John laughed, now regretting following this girl. Was he about to step into a drug den and get jumped? Maybe those cautionary tales Mimi had told him over and over weren’t so far fetched. 

“For us,” she pointed between the both of them. “For...unmenschlich...ah...not men?”

“Darling, I’m very much a man,” John’s eyebrows jumped and she let out an annoyed huff. 

The door made a terrible squeal as it was wrenched open and the sound of music drifted out into the alley. Sofie pursed her lips and stepped forward to him, her fingers pulling at her skirt. Something flicked against John’s calf and he glanced down to see a slim...tail? It looked like a cow’s tale, moving on its own and flicking back and forth. 

“Not human,” he whispered, realizing what she had meant. Then, another realization crashed over him. She  _ knew _ . John stepped back, panic clawing up his throat. 

“John,” Sofie followed him, eyes wide and gentle. “Not hurt, just us. Just not human. You are safe here.”

His heart still pounded painfully in his chest but John glanced into the door, frowning at the dark hallway. He should turn and run, hide under his covers and hope that all of this was a dream but...he couldn’t. 

Her smile was blinding when he nodded and she took his hand, leading him into the hallway. Now, she let her tail drift below her skirts and he realized that she had been hiding too. They stepped through another door and his breath caught in his throat. 

It looked like the sketchiest dive bar he could ever imagine. The walls were covered in aging posters and scribbled writing. The bar looked filthy and the tables were still covered in empty glasses and bottles. 

But the people, the people were there. A group of women giggled by the bar, hands moving as their drinks stirred themselves. An incredibly tall person covered in what looked like warts,  _ a troll John’s hysterical mind thought _ , played darts with a woman who had actual wings. 

It was like a storybook had come to life, like he was surrounded by everything that he had been told didn’t exist. 

They weren’t hiding.

He didn’t have to hide. 

Sofie led him to the bar, humming as she went and waved down the bartender. In no time, they had two drinks and sat on creaking stools. John still felt a bit lightheaded as he looked around the room. 

“It’s rude to stare lad,” a voice came from his side and Sofie let out a shriek, throwing her arms around the man. John felt a blush burn his cheeks and instantly snapped his eyes back. “But I get it, it’s overwhelming the first time you realize you aren’t alone.”

The man was quite short and hopped up onto the stool next to him. With a grimace, he pulled at his shoes until they popped off to reveal hooves. He combed his hands through his long hair and John caught a glimpse of small horns. 

“Alex,” the man held out a hand and John shook it. “I’m a satyr.”

“Oh,” John blinked. 

“And you’ve met Sofie. She’s a hamingja,” he motioned to Sofie who passed him a drink. “And you?”

“I’m John,” he said simply. Alex stayed quiet, almost as if waiting for something else. “Oh! I’m...a chang...changeling.”

Alex smiled warmly and tapped their glasses together. “Well John the changeling, welcome to Geschichten. This is a safe place for people like us.”

John let out a disbelieving laugh and looked around the room again. “It’s...overwhelming.”

“It is,” Alex nodded and took a long drink. “So John, what is one of the goodly folk doing here in our lovely town?”

It was so easy, so  _ freeing _ , to talk to someone who understood. He was able to talk about how lost and lonely he felt, about how much more connected to the world he felt when playing music. He was able to talk about his frustrations in his mother keeping this from him, even shedding a few tears. 

All because they understood. 

When the bartender announced that they were closing down for the night John felt a physical pain in his chest. He wanted to stay, talk to them, and learn about this new world he had just been introduced to.

“Sofie says you’re quite good,” Alex pulled on his shoes again and rearranged his hair to hide the horns. “I’ll be sure to come watch your band...the Beatles was it? Clever name.”

“Thanks,” John grinned. 

“And you are welcome back here anytime, the door has been enchanted so it can only open for supernaturals,” Alex stood and shook John’s hand. “I hope to see you here again John.”

“You’ll see me again,” Sofie turned to Alex and said something in rapid German before pressing a kiss to John’s cheek. 

“Sofie says she hopes to see you here too,” Alex wrapped an arm around Sofie’s waist, making her giggle. “And she says to bring her friends with you but only the non human ones.”

Wait.

What?

“Pardon?” John frowned. 

Alex and Sofie had a short conversation, Sofie’s brows furrowed in confusion. Alex turned back to him, shrugging. “She says the ones on the guitar, the one with the pretty eyes and the tall thin one.”

Paul and George?

His mind was racing but he accepted a hug from both of them. The cool air felt refreshing on his overheated cheeks as he walked back to the Kaiserkeller. What had Sofie meant? Paul and George weren’t human?

It was almost too hard to believe but...she had known about him.

The club was nearly empty by the time he returned, just a few people scattered throughout. George and his new friend looked moments away from falling asleep at their table, barely looking up when he approached.

“Oh, hey...hey John,” the younger man grinned and John found himself studying him. What was he if he wasn’t human? “D’ja get lucky?”

“Very,” John mumbled. 

“H’ve...have ya met Ringo?” George nodded to his friend and John met hazy blue eyes. “He’s nice.”

“I’m sure,” John sighed. Normally he would have poked fun at the nickname but he wasn’t exactly in a joking mood. “Where’s Paul?”

“He pulled some redhead,” George shrugged and Ringo cackled. “Pretty sure Stu and Pete crashed elsewhere.”

Without another word, John spun on his heel and walked to the back part of the club. He made it halfway down the hallway before the bedroom door opened and the redhead slipped out. Her dress was wrinkled and hiked up in places and her messy hair made it quite telling what had happened. One hand was pressed to one side of her neck and she turned red when she saw John, scuttling around him when he passed. 

Paul barely glanced up from the washbasin when he walked in, scrubbing at his hands. He was dressed only in his boxers and had a healthy flush to his face, neck and chest. 

“Saw that cracker you pulled,” John blurted and Paul met his eyes in the dirty mirror. “Was she good?”

“That’s awful crass,” Paul mumbled, wiping his hands and checking himself in the mirror. “She was fine. Nice girl.”

“Real nice,” John sat on his too small bed and stared at Paul. He looked just like his normal self, like the boy John spent countless hours writing songs with. How could he have not noticed? 

“What, you want all the dirty details?” Paul laughed, flopping back into bed. “What you staring at me for?”

“Nothing,” John shook his head. “Nothing at all.”


	4. Chapter 4

John went back to the secret club often.

He didn’t bring Paul or George. 

Honestly, he wasn’t sure what kept him from doing so. Part of him was really bitter that his friends, people he had known for years, kept this huge secret from him. Of course, he understood the hypocrisy of that as he himself was too scared to speak his truth to anyone.

The accusing words sat like poison on his tongue, burning and aching. John was a man of words, using them like weapons to hurt and a shield to protect himself, so it was incredibly difficult to keep them in. It wasn’t the time to talk, it was the time to watch.

Paul and George didn’t seem supernatural and that was what confused him. Maybe it was the little things that gave him away? Maybe he was reading too much into their personal quirks. 

But...

Perhaps Paul’s charm wasn’t just because of his pretty eyes and cheeky smile.

Perhaps George’s quiet demeanor was because of something else. 

Every little thing they did and said was added to John’s mental inventory of “ _ proof _ ”. Their lunch choices? The girls they pulled? The time of day they woke up? All proof.

Except it wasn’t. Paul was still his friend that thought in songs and George was still his friend who laughed often. They were still the same and not at the same time. 

“What can I do?” He asked Alex as they sipped at their lager. It was far past midnight, late enough that the others didn’t notice him slipping out of the club. 

Alex tore his eyes away from where Sofie was laughing and dancing with a few nymphs and gave him a sympathetic smile. “You should tell them first.”

John huffed. “I guess.”

And he was ashamed. For all that bravado and all that ‘I don’t care what people think’ attitude he found that he did care. He had taken time to accept what he was, mostly, but the memory of the absolute fear and horror he felt at finding out still haunted him. What if this destroyed everything they had built? What if he did that?

So, he did what he did best. 

He hid.

John hid behind the drinks, the pills, the fights and the sharp words. He ignored the lonely part of him that craved the chance to not be  _ alone _ . Mimi said she understood and the people in the club said they did as well but they didn’t. How could they?

Maybe George and Paul felt alone too.

But...still...

In the end, John didn’t make the decision. Paul did.

There was a terrible storm, a mix of rain and sleet crashing over the streets. Almost no one was in the club, leaving them playing to maybe a handful of people. Most of the boys were drinking in the club but John and Paul had retired to their room, choosing to sip on their drinks and smoke in relative quiet. 

It felt  _ sleepy _ in the best way possible. John didn’t need to sleep as much, maybe dropping off for a few hours. He wasn’t sure if that was because of the fae in him or because of the pills they popped before their shows every night. But here, lying in their beds and watching the smoke drift up to the ceiling, it felt like he could just fall away. 

The beds were jammed tightly into the room, leaving barely a meter between them so they both had their half full drinks on the ground in the middle. John let his eyes slide closed, feeling dizzy at the sight of the hazy lights. 

Paul...wasn’t as relaxed. 

John could see how his leg jiggled and his hands flexed. It looked like he was chewing on the end of his cigarette as his jaw tightened. 

“Best stop that,” John drawled out as he flicked ash on the floor. “You’re about to drive me mad with all your...bouncing.”

“Hmm,” Paul hummed, lips pursed. Then he sat up quickly and wrung his hands together for a moment. “Hey John?”

He didn’t answer, instead shifting the short distance to crowd onto John’s bed with him. Grumbling, John shifted to make room and offered his cigarette to Paul who took a long drag. They lay together in silence for a long moment and John let his eyes drift closed. 

Paul shifted in the bed, moving to lay on his side. “John?”

“For fuck’s sake, just tell me what you want,” John grumbled. 

“Keep your eyes closed, ‘kay?” The younger boy’s voice was soft. John frowned as he felt Paul’s fingers lightly drift across his throat before it became  _ sharp. _

John jerked and gasped at the sudden pain, eyes flying open to see Paul moving closer. He didn’t jump away, he didn’t move, he didn’t turn. He just watched in a daze as Paul leaned in close. Was that his tongue? John squirmed as Paul licked at his wound and then the lips sealed around his cut and he  _ pulled. _

It happened quicker than he could have expected.

One moment he gasped, feeling blood flow out of his throat and into Paul, and the next he just felt cold and alone. Paul practically launched himself away, coughing and hissing in what sounded like pain. He stumbled away from the bed and leaned over the sink, retching.

John sat up, pressing a shaky hand to his throat to feel the cut already closing up. His hand was sticky with blood and the cut burned slightly. He was trembling all over and stared at Paul in shock. 

The younger man still leaned over the sink, jerking with his heaves. A terrible, horrible mixture of deep red and black splashed into the sink. Paul groaned in agony, back spasming under his tight shirt as he gasped for breath.

“Paul?” 

He didn’t answer so John grabbed the beer, walking over to Paul and handing it to him. He winced at the gore filled sink as Paul gulped down the beer, spitting a mouthful into the sink as well. He coughed a few times, shuddering. 

“Pa-”

“What the fuck are you?” He croaked out, voice hoarse. 

“What the fuck are  _ you _ ?” John countered. “Because I’m pretty sure that you just tried to slit my throat and drain me dry!”

At least Paul looked a little ashamed at that. “I wasn’t trying to drain you dry.”

John nodded to the sink and Paul let out a long breath, still looking pale and shaky. “I’m sure all the vampires say that.”

“I’m not a fucking vampire,” Paul spat, fingers gripping the bloody sink tightly. 

“Then what are you?” John snapped back, getting angry. “What were you trying to do? I deserve to know that much.”

For a long, long moment he thought Paul was just going to stay silent. He stared ahead, hazel eyes dark, before he finally spoke. “I wasn’t going to kill you. I swear. I just...with the weather and the...I haven’t fed in a while and there wasn’t exactly an abundance of drunk birds out there to pull from.”

“So you tried to feed off of me?” John frowned. 

“I was stupid and...I’m just so  _ hungry _ ,” a sob burst from Paul’s lips and he covered his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

And he wasn’t the monster he was just moments ago, covered in blood and gore. He was the boy John met at a church fete. He was scared and in pain. John stepped forward and pulled him into a hug, shushing him when Paul pulled him in tight. 

“I’m so sorry John,” he mumbled into his side. “It was...it wouldn’t have hurt and you wouldn’t have remembered. I’m so sorry.”

John just held him, rocking them slightly back and forth. He could feel the grief and shame practically pouring off of Paul. “I’m a changeling. A fae.”

There was a beat of silence before Paul laughed tearfully, pulling back a bit. “Explains why you taste so bad.”

“Fae don’t taste good to vampires?” He teased lightly and Paul scowled. 

“Not a vampire,” he mumbled. “Vampires are reanimated corpses...I’m not dead as far as I know. Plus, they are nasty things...”

“Uh huh,” John nodded, waving a hand until Paul rolled his eyes. 

“I’m a baobhan sith,” he sighed, rocking a bit on his feet. “We’re a kind of fae, not made but born. I...I need blood to survive but I don’t hurt people or...I try not to.”

“Come on Paul, you couldn’t hurt a fly,” John said softly and Paul finally, finally smiled. “So...you bit me?”

“No,” Paul scrunched up his nose. “I’m not an animal. I do this.”

He extended a slim hand, flexing his fingers slightly as his nails lengthened and sharpened. After a beat, the claws shrank back and he curled his hand into a fist as it dropped by his side. 

The door handle shook a bit and John was seized with fear. If someone came in they would see them both streaked in blood and find the sink splattered. It looked like someone had been murdered and that was...not what they needed to see.

He bound across the small room and shoved the door shut as it started to open. The person on the other side yelped in surprise and pain, George by the sound of it, and then let out a string of curses. 

“It’s alright,” Paul sighed. “Let him in. He knows.”

For a split, irrational second John felt jealous. Paul told George what he was when he was hiding it from John. Never mind that they had been friends for years and years. He hesitated before opening the door to see a fuming George.

“What the fuck Lennon?” He snapped, shoving his way into the room and freezing at the sight of Paul. “What the hell happened here?”

“Paul tried to seduce me and kill me,” John quipped and Paul let out a pained groan, dropping his head into his hands. “But apparently fairy blood isn’t so good for vampires.”

“Not a vampire,” his voice was muffled under his hands. 

“Seriously Paul? You tried to feed off of him?” George scoffed and put his hands on his hips, surveying the sink. 

“I’ll have you know that most people think I’m quite  _ delicious _ ,” John plopped down on his bed, frowning at the smear of blood on his pillow. He swapped it with Paul’s and watched as he started cleaning up the sink. 

“What was I supposed to do George? There wasn’t anyone else to feed on,” Paul ran the tap and splashed at the sink. The red started swirling down the drain. “I was just gonna take a bit until I could properly feed again.”

“You a vampire too?” John nodded to George, ignoring Paul’s annoyed protests that he  _ was not a vampire _ . 

George’s face twisted and he scowled deeper, thick brows pulling over his eyes. “A dryad actually. My family lives in Newsham Park.”

At that John studied him carefully. George didn’t look very...tree-y...except for maybe his height and build. But...the more he studied him the more something looked inhuman. George’s eyes were a dark brown but they were streaked, looking slightly like bark if you were to really look. His features were sharp and pointed and...twisting into an even darker scowl. 

“I can hide it, thank you very much,” George growled and John held his hands up in surrender. 

“And you both knew about each other?” John motioned between them.

“We grew up together,” Paul mumbled. “There really is a close knit community of supes there. We watch out for each other...kinda surprised you weren’t there.”

“My mum was a fae and...didn’t really tell me about it. Mimi didn’t tell me shit because she didn’t know if I would be human or if I would show my true colors so to speak. It was a bit of a surprise,” John shrugged and Paul hummed.

“Fae blood is strange like that. My da and brother didn’t show any fae tendencies but my mum and I did,” Paul sat on the edge of the bed, hands crossed over his knees. “And this is all very lovely and whatnot but...I’m bloody starving.”

John winced at that. He could see a difference in Paul for sure. His already pale skin seemed nearly grey in the crappy lighting. The hazel in his eyes had started shifting to more red, giving him a monstrous look. He also just looked incredibly uncomfortable, like he was wanting to claw out of his skin. 

“A few lads came in just a bit ago,” George offered and Paul let out a sigh. “Seem right drunk, might be easy.”

“Sounds perfect,” they walked out into the club, Paul’s face pinched. The group of men were far past “right drunk” as they shouted and shook icy rain off their boots. 

With the practiced ease of a predator, Paul slipped over to the and grinned charmingly at one of the men. John could see the exact moment the magic fell as the man’s attention was entirely fixed on Paul. In no time, he was following Paul back to the room and leaving his clueless friends behind.

Paul fixed a look at John before they slipped behind the door. A rush of...jealousy? Anger? Flared through John and he clenched his jaw. He was Paul’s best friend, he should be able to help him and instead he hurt him. 

“So...we just wait?” He asked, glancing at George. 

“Yeah, and make sure no one goes back there,” the younger boy sat down in a booth and leaned back. John slowly sat down next to him, squinting his eyes at the door. “You know, this wouldn’t have happened if you had just told us what you were.”

“I’m not the only one keeping secrets,” John snapped. 

“I sometimes thought there was something...off about you,” George continued, eyes bright in the dim lighting. “But I thought that was just the...John-ness. You’ve really kept this from everyone since you were eighteen?”

“Yeah.”

George nodded. “Must of been real lonely.”

“Yeah...it was,” John swallowed, not looking away from the door. 

“You’re not alone no more,” George’s voice was soft and John finally tore his eyes from the door, focusing on his younger friend. A small smile quirked at his lips. 

“Thanks Geo,” John clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing just a bit. “Look at us, a rock and roll band made of monsters.”

“Speak for yourself mate,” George said but he was smiling.


	5. Chapter 5

_ "Of all the things you choose in life, you don't get to choose what your nightmares are. You don't pick them; they pick you." _

_ John Irving _

_ Fire. _

_ It lapped at his ankles and curled up his calves like a living thing, like a snake hissing and spitting. The heat was there and he could feel his skin blistering and popping, shrinking and dying.  _

_ But he wasn’t alone here. _

_ Paul was shouting, or at least he thought he was shouting by the way his mouth opened and closed. He looked terrified as he frantically batted at the flames. Beside him, George was completely aflame. His skin glowed hot like embers and flaked off, drifting into ash. The leaves and small flowers that had grown from his hair shriveled into nothing.  _

_ They were burning _

_ Burning. _

John’s eyes snapped open to find a room full of smoke. He shot up in bed, coughing, and squinted his eyes to hopefully find the cause of the fire but there was...nothing. He was hacking up a lung in a perfectly quiet room. Several of the boys grumbled but only Stu woke up, frowning into the dark.

“Ya good Lennon?” His voice was rough with sleep.

“Great,” John stumbled to his feet and cupped his hand under the sink, swallowing several gulps of water. “Just a cough.”

Stu plopped back down and was snoring almost immediately, leaving John alone with his thoughts. It wasn’t a normal dream, it was like the dreams he had before his true nature came to light. It was just the first one that had someone else in it.

He shuddered at the thought of his friends in pain. A terrible, monstrous feeling of foreboding shot through him and he felt sick for a moment. 

He had to help them.

But what was he supposed to say? I had a bad dream where you died and I think we should go back to Liverpool? They would laugh. John had been the one who had pushed for them to do this, they would never believe him.

So...maybe he should be a bit sneaky. 

It felt cruel to mumble to the manager that George was only seventeen. He knew the cost of admitting that he was underage but it was much better than seeing him engulfed in flames. 

Still, it hurt to see how broken-hearted George was when the police checked his work visa. The poor lad packed up in tears as Paul ranted and raved about how unfair it was. To his credit, George kept his chin up and encouraged them to continue their gigs. 

“It’s only like three months before I can be here,” he shrugged. “And then I’ll come right back. Just don’t find anyone to play my part, yeah?”

Paul hugged his friend tightly and John felt guilt eat at him. This was his fault. It was his fault that George was being sent back home. It was his fault that Paul was losing his friend and the only person who really understood. It was his fault that the Beatles wouldn’t be whole. 

But, George would be safe. 

They walked their youngest Beatle to the train stop and George gave him a shaky smile. “Take care boys, try not to get into too much trouble.”

“Nah mate, you’re the trouble,” Pete teased. 

In the days following Paul became nastier to the manager of the club, Bruno. Snide comments and mocking jokes grated on the man until he finally snapped and moved them out of their room into even dingier accommodations. 

Pete and Paul were moved to a wretched storeroom behind the stage of Bambi Kino. John and Stu were moved to a tiny attic room above the Top Ten Club. It was miserable but all John felt was relief. 

They would just play out their contract, welcome George back when he was legal and it would all be fine. They would be fine.

It was what John kept repeating in his head over and over again as he smoked in the alley outside of Top Ten. Stu stepped out and held out a hand, silently accepting a cigarette from his friend and joining him against the wall.

It was freezing, even though their thick coats, but neither one of them cared. It was cold in the attic as well but at least out here it only smelled like trash and not body odor and dust. They smoked for a while, watching the ashes flutter into the wind. 

Things were fine.

Then they weren’t.

Police lights weren’t exactly rare in that area. There were plenty of stupid drunken fools who wanted to prove their bravado by beating on someone. The cars wailed as they flew by, turning the corner to stop just a street away. 

“Oi, are they by Bambi Kino?” Stu asked, leaning forward a bit. A firetruck screamed past them and John felt the first stirring of fear. His heart sank entirely when the firetruck stopped in front of the other club, cigarette falling to the ground.

Stu was right behind him as they sprinted down the alley, joining the curious crowd of drunken patrons. There was a commotion by the door, lots of angry shouts and arms waving around, before two men were led out of the club in handcuffs. 

Paul and Pete.

They looked a little rattled, coughing and clothes stained with soot. Boris followed them, screaming and cursing as they were led away.

“Fucking English scum burn down my club!” He shrieked, voice cracking and even his mustache quivering in rage. “Want to burn down the whole street!”

“We didn’t try to burn down your house you fucking prat!” Paul shouted back. “How could we? We were just trying to get some warmth in that fucking dump!”

Fire.

There had been a fire.

John’s breath hitched in his throat as the other men were led to the police cars. He had tried to stop it but he couldn’t. There had been a fire.

“Hey!” Stu shouted, shoving past the crowd. “Hey! They are our bandmates, where are you takin’ em?”

An officer fixed him with a long look and both Paul and Pete were shoved into the car. “They are under arrest for arson. They will spend a night in jail and most likely will be deported.”

This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. 

He was supposed to make sure the fire wouldn’t happen. He was supposed to make sure that whatever horrors he had seen wouldn’t happen. He had done his best to change the things around him but it still happened. 

No matter what, it still happened. 

John felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the realization that what he had dreamed  _ had come to pass. _ There had been a fire in a place where there should not be a fire, no fire should have happened in that little stone dungeon. 

He didn’t get to talk to Paul or Pete before they were sent back to Liverpool. He and Stu danced awkwardly around each other, knowing that the band was done with most of its players gone. Neither one of them wanted to say anything first. 

It gave John a lot of time to think.

The fire was going to happen. If it had happened in their first living quarters it might have been much more dangerous. The beds were so close together and the space was so cramped. If it had gone up in flames they wouldn’t have been able to get out. 

So, he got George to leave which pissed off Paul. Paul mouthing off to Boris made him retaliate by putting them in the new quarters. The fire couldn’t burn too much in a stone room.

He couldn’t stop the fire from happening but he could try and control  _ how it happened. _

But...maybe he was just thinking too far into it. 

Regardless, he returned to Liverpool nine days later and didn’t dream of the fire again. 


	6. Chapter 6

_ "Too many of us are not living our dreams because we are living in our fears." _

_ Les Brown _

Fucking Pete and his fucking immune system.

George was  _ pissed _ . It had taken time for the band to reform after Hamburg. He had to wait for the others to come back with their tails between their legs. Stu hadn’t even bothered to come back, choosing to stay with some girl.

They hovered around each other, the band just out of reach for a while. Things started growing though. They played together, Paul taking on the bass now that Stu had left which honestly was a major improvement. They managed to make it back to Hamburg, a bit of validation for George as he was now perfectly legal. They were even in a few articles in magazines which George kept in a little box under his bed.

Then things really started picking up.

They had a single released! People were listening to them on their record players. Brian, the kind man with a wide smile, had made that happen. He had gotten them their single and signed on to be their manager despite them being rejected in the past. He was getting them gigs and was excited about the prospect of even possibly another single. 

And then Pete had gone and gotten sick.

George knew that dryads were supposed to be a part of nature. His mother often admonished him for his quick temper, saying that he wasn’t acting like he was supposed to be. Dryads were strong, sturdy, unmoving. They were a gentle species, one that was connected to everything around him.

He should feel sympathy for Pete, the part of him that was connected to the greater world, should want to make sure he was healing. But...he was the first to admit he was kind of a shit dryad. 

“We can’t go on without a drummer,” John seethed, lighting yet another cigarette and shoving it between clenched teeth. “We’re gonna have to cancel.”

“Now, now,” Brian, only their manager for five days, tried to soothe. “I’ve found a sub for you. You’ve played with him before, Richard Starkey?”

John shook his head, eyes flinty.

“Goes by Ringo Starr,” at that, George nodded. He remembered Ringo. The older boy had shared their bill in Hamburg with Rory Storm and the Hurricanes. They had barely chatted, usually surrounded by a cloud of smoke and dazed from drink. 

“Aye, he was good,” John nodded. Ringo had subbed in for a moment when they were recording, basically being pulled in and sat at the drum set. He was quite talented. This may not be the nightmare John was making it out to be. 

“Great, they’re performing here in an hour. We can ask him then,” Brian leaned back, taking a sip from his tea. No surprise, Brian was smart enough to basically ambush the guy. 

He watched them carefully, making sure that Paul and John didn’t have one too many pints. Soon, the band started setting up and George watched the drummer. Ringo was on the shorter side and was wearing the same pink suit that the others were. He had his hair done in the same style as them, fluffed up a bit on top. Most interestingly was the stark white streak that ran across his temple. 

And he was good. 

When they started playing George really focused on the drumming. He of course had heard them play before and thought they were good but Ringo, he was something special. The drummer didn’t miss a beat, making difficult rhythms seem easy. 

He was better than Pete. George felt a bit guilty for thinking it but it was true. 

They finished their set, gave their bows and started getting packed up. Rory caught sight of them and gave them a smile. “Well, if it isn’t The Beatles.”

The other members of the band chuckled and nodded at them. John grinned back, holding up his pint in a salute. “Thought you might want a real band to give you some pointers.”

Rory laughed loudly and hopped off the stage. “Nah mate, no thanks.”

“We are here to ask a favor,” Brian leaned forward, holding out a hand. “Brian Epstein, the boys’ manager.”

“Ooh, a manager,” Rory’s brows rose. “Must be a big favor.”

“Our drummer has sadly come down with a case of the flu...or a cold...or the plague,” John waved his hand a bit, ashes drifting from his cigarette. “And we need to borrow yours for the day.”

“Ringo!” Rory shouted behind him and the drummer’s head snapped up. “Oi! Come here!”

He hopped off the stage and made his way over, a crooked smile on his face. “What’s going on Rory?”

“These boys want to borrow you for the day,” Rory accepted a cigarette from John and lit it. “When was it?”

“Tomorrow,” John said. “Two shows, a lunch one at Cavern and evening at Kingsway.”

Ringo lit up a bit at that, blue eyes shining. “Sounds like a right good time, I’m in.”

“You sure?” The guitarist piped up from the stage, face twisted and voice mean. Ringo went perfectly stiff and frowned deeply. 

“Ty, let’s not,” Rory flashed him a look. 

“They should know what they’re getting into. You know he’s a supe right?” The guitarist, Ty, nodded at him. He had an ugly sneer on his face. “Gotta sign a liability waiver with the club. Costs you some money.”

An awkward silence followed and Ringo seemed to fold in on himself a bit. 

“You won’t cause any trouble?” Brian asked and Ringo shook his head.

“No sir.”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is,” he leveled a long look at Ty. “We’re looking for talent, not species.”

“Just trying to let you know. I mean, I’d want to know if there was a werewolf on the stage with me. S’why I always wear a silver chain you see?” Ty rolled his eyes and snapped his guitar case shut. “Careful lads, you never know when a bad doggy will bite.”

Rory let out a harsh breath through his nose. “That’s fucking enough Ty.”

The guitarist scoffed and pulled off his tie, grabbing his guitar case and sauntering out the club. Another uncomfortable silence followed before Ringo cleared his throat, lifting his chin. 

“It doesn’t impact my drumming,” despite the brave face he was putting on he could see the insecurity in those blue eyes. “And I’ll pay the supernatural fee out of my own pocket.”

John nodded and George felt the tension in the room vanish. 

There was a small, secretive community of supernaturals in Liverpool. Humans were the ones who encroached on their sacred land and took it. Humans were the ones who cut down trees and paved over the fields. Humans were the ones who decided that supernatural creatures didn’t belong there and killed them. 

George had heard all the stories, whispered into the wind by the elders so they would understand the importance of secrecy. Other groups were known to them as well, the survivors of humans settling. There were the fae who lived in the mounds outside of town, the merfolk who lived under the docks, and so many more that George didn’t even know the name of. They looked out for each other, they helped each other in a world that had been forced upon them and hated them.

But...he hadn’t seen Ringo.

Werewolves were notoriously quiet, choosing to drift along the outskirts of society. He hadn’t heard of any packs in Liverpool. Maybe he had just moved there. 

“Spare some time to practice with us then?” Paul asked cheerfully. “I know you just finished but-”

“Yeah, yeah that sounds great,” Ringo gave them a bright smile and George couldn’t help but smile back. 

Ringo was a quick study, he learned their set list in no time. He was the picture of confidence when they performed, falling so easily in with Paul’s bass playing. When he sang he blended it perfectly.

This was the connection his mother said he should feel. This was the sensation of being  _ whole _ . George felt a slight shiver as he realized that this was the first time as a band that he really felt like he belonged to something amazing. 

They finished their second set, bowed out as the crowd cheered and started cleaning up. The familiar rush of a performance well done had George feeling giddy. He had a bounce in his step as he moved his guitar case behind stage.

“Where ya going?” He asked, seeing as Ringo was pulling on his coat. 

“Um...home?”

John scoffed, wrapping an arm around George’s shoulders. “No you’re not son, you’re having a drink with us. Band tradition and all.”

“Is it?” Paul quipped behind him. 

“We drink after every show, might as well call it a tradition,” John gave them a shrug. “Go sit down and I’ll get our first pint.”

Ringo still seemed a bit uncomfortable as he sat next to George in the booth, fingers tapping at the frost collecting on his glass. He smiled along with John’s jokes, nodded at Paul’s review of their show, and kept his eyes on George as he spoke. However, there was still a nervous air about him.

“Now Ringo,” John was three pints in and it showed at the rosy tinge in his cheeks. “I’ve always thought you could tell a werewolf. They have the funny eyes and the teeth and all. You don’t. Why?”

Paul immediately smacked John’s arm, eyes wide. “John! You can’t just ask that!”

“What? Don’t you want to know?” He argued back, taking a long drink.

There was a huff next to him and George glanced over to see that Ringo had that guarded look in his eyes again. “It’s fine. Those are the werewolves who are born. It’s more obvious with them, genes and whatever. I was turned.”

George could see the curiosity in John’s eyes but jumped in before he could say anything that would make it worse. “So, where did you grow up?”

“Dingle,” Ringo took a sip of his own beer, carefully watching their reaction. The area wasn’t exactly known to be the jewel of Liverpool after all.

“That where you got bit?” John blurted and got another smack from Paul.

“I’d really not like to talk about it,” Ringo’s voice was hard and his eyes were like ice. “I try not to give that monster a moment of my time.”

“Monster?” John’s humor faded.

“Of course. Monsters, the lot of them, only want to hurt and maim,” Ringo’s lip curled up. “Should all be locked up.”

“That would include you then,” John said softly and Paul didn’t even stop him. 

“I’m aware. You haven’t seen me during a full moon mate,” Ringo finished off his pint. “No control over what I am. It’s a fucking nightmare.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” Paul said, voice loud and bright. Of course he would be the one to break the tension, shooting John a warning look. John shrugged in response and they went back to talking about local bands.

Ringo never fully relaxed, he hardly said anything after that. The easy camaraderie they had before was gone and George kind of mourned it. The small glimpse into what Ringo was going through crushed him, leaving him almost short of breath in his grief. 

He hated himself. 

He had been forced into this life and it probably wasn’t the nicest story. It had to be violent and terrible, something that changed him completely. 

All day he had been debating if he should let Ringo know he wasn’t alone. He simply could just tell him that they were all supernaturals. But, now the words shriveled on his tongue. It was obvious Ringo hated the thing that had ruined his life and that hate had evolved to encompass all supernatural beings.

Dryads were guardian spirits. It was why he felt so close to Paul, wanting to help him when he needed his feedings. There was something in him wanting nothing more than to make that haunted look leave Ringo’s eyes. He wanted him to know he wasn’t alone, that he could live the life he wanted.

But...George knew he was a shit dryad. 

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

Growing up, Paul’s mother told him the story of Abhartach. 

She would pull him into bed and press a mug of warmed blood into his hand. It was something that they did every night, him sitting in her lap as he sipped. When he was a child he didn’t question why his father or brother didn’t have to drink it, he just enjoyed the time with his mother. 

“I’m going to tell you a story my Jaime,” she hummed and he sighed.

“Is it the same one you always tell?” 

“It is,” she chuckled and ruffled his hair. “It’s the story of Abhartach, perhaps you can tell it with me.”

Paul perked up at that and nodded. 

“Many, many years ago in a place not that far away there was a king Abhartach,” her gentle voice soothed him. “And-”

“He was like us,” Paul blurted. “He drank life too!”

“Yes darling, he did. But unlike us he was cruel. He had a beautiful wife and he thought she was being unfaithful.”

“Cheatin’? Kevin at school said that was cheatin’.”

Mary laughed. “He was scared that she had fallen in love with someone else. He worried and worried and finally decided to catch her in the act. He climbed up the side of the castle to try and spy on her.”

“What a weird person.”

“Very weird. Of course, we don’t climb walls because it is very, very dangerous. Abhartach fell and died,” she smiled as Paul clapped his hands. “And the people were glad. He was a very mean man and now the people thought they would be free. As tradition states they buried him standing upright. That’s how they buried kings then. And what happened next?”

“He woke up.”

“Yes he did,” this was when the story got scary. “He woke up and came to the people. He stole their blood. He would walk with a bowl and force them to give their blood. Do we do that?”

“No.”

“No we don’t. We need blood to live but we don’t hurt people. We use our magic and we make sure people feel no pain. If we don’t, what happens?”

“Mum,” Paul whined but he knew his mother wouldn’t continue the story without him saying it. “We’d become monsters.”

“That’s right,” her voice was soft. “And the people were afraid. They asked a hero, a man named Cathan, to come help. He was strong and he killed Abhartach. Again, they buried him standing up and thought they were free. Were they?”

“No. He came back.”

“He came back the next night and stole life again, forcing the people to bleed into his bowl as he greedily drank it,” Mary took his empty mug and set it aside. “So, again Cathan killed him and again he rose from the dead. And what happened next?”

“He asked Eoghan for help.”

“Eoghan was a saint and told him how to kill Abhartach and make sure he stayed dead. What did he have to do?” Paul shivered a little, he didn’t like this part of the story. “What did he have to do?”

“He had to...he had to make a sword from a tree and stab him through the heart. Then he had to bury him upside down and cover him in thorns. Then he had to cover him with a heavy stone,” Paul mumbled and she nodded. 

“And what did he do?”

“He followed what Eoghan said,” Paul grimaced. “And he stayed dead.”

“Do you know why I tell you this story Paul?” He hated how sad her voice became but he knew the answer by heart. “Sweetheart?”

“You tell me this story because you want me to be safe. Humans think we are all like Abhartach and they will kill us if we let them know what we are,” he repeated what he was told every night. “And...and we can’t hurt people because we will be monsters.”

“You are my baby Paul, my sweet boy,” she held him tight. “And if I lost you I would die. If someone tried to hurt you or...or if you lost yourself I wouldn’t be able to make it.”

“I’ll be safe mama,” Paul snuggled back into her hold and closed his eyes, letting her stroke at his hair. 

It didn’t matter how safe he was. She died anyway. 

Still, Paul remembered the warnings. He kept quiet and he kept safe, drinking only when he was sure they were under his spell and he made sure they were alright after. His father, although he showed no fae tendencies, did his best to help him. There were rules though.

One, it had to be done in a safe place.

Two, he had to use his magic to make sure they didn’t remember.

Three, he had to be sure that they were not irreversibly harmed. 

He chose the forest to be his hunting grounds (and God, he hated using that term). It was secluded and barely visited, weeds overgrowing and path untamed. As a young teen he would turn wet eyes to good samaritans and ask them to help him find his dog, leading them through the woods before helping them slip into that dreamy state. 

It was there where he met George. 

The dryad had stepped out from shadows, dark eyes curious as his human features became more obvious. Leaves, twigs and flowers drew back until his messy hair and his skin grew pinker. He looked at the woman who leaned against another tree, dazed and bleeding slightly from her neck. 

“I don’t mean to be rude but you keep making a mess of my home.”

That was it then. George proclaimed himself Paul’s guardian, despite only being thirteen, and they didn’t stray far from each other. He watched over him, making sure no one disturbed him when he had to feed, and Paul took him under his wing. 

They took care of each other. 

And Paul was going to take care of him now. 

“I’m just...not sure...” he said slowly and all eyes turned towards him. George’s eyes narrowed slightly and he could feel the tension in the air. 

“And why not Paulie?” John drawled. 

He shrank down, trying desperately to think of something to say. “Is it the safest thing to do?”

Silence. 

“I know you boys probably aren’t...against supernatural beings,” Brian said slowly, looking between the three of them. “But you know he is a talented drummer and you all seemed to get along with him during the times you played together.”

Shame burned through Paul and he shifted in his seat. Brian didn’t know about them, he couldn’t. The band was still in its infancy and the risk of managing a band of supernaturals was too much to take. 

At least, that’s what Paul thought. 

“There are plenty of talented drummers out there.”

“Brian, could you give us a moment please?” John gave him a shining smile and Brian sighed before standing up and leaving them alone in his office. Sometimes Paul wondered how much of his fae charm John used on people. 

Then the anger was turned to him. 

“What’s your problem Paul?” John snapped. 

“Me? I’m not the one firing one of our oldest friends to let in a  _ werewolf _ ,” he spat back and George’s scowl deepend. “I mean, come on.”

“Didn’t realize you were prejudiced.”

Paul rolled his eyes at George’s snide remark. “I’m not, I’m being practical. Everyone knows what he is. We’ll have to pay a fee at every venue we play at. We might get turned away by labels. Think about the press!”

“Ringo is-”

“I’m sure he’s lovely,” Paul held up a hand. “And talented, but he’s a known werewolf. You and I know that they are dangerous.”

Again, silence.

“Says the  _ thing _ who lures humans into woods and drinks their blood,” George spat. 

“Oh fuck you,” Paul snarled back, slamming a hand on the table. “Fuck you! I know what this is really about. Your stupid guardian tendancies or whatever, that’s what you always say. You saw him as a sad little puppy and you wanted to help. You can’t protect...bring peace and harmony or whatever dryad bullshit you spout to everything.”

George’s face twisted into a glare. “So you’re allowed to hurt people but I’m not allowed to help them?”

“No one asked you to help!”

John snapped his fingers a bit to get their attention. “Now, now children. Stop the fighting.”

Scowling, Paul slumped back in his chair. “It’ll bring the wrong kind of attention. We bring him into the band and we are putting ourselves in danger.”

There was another long silence between the three of them before the tension lessened slightly. George scrubbed a hand through his hair and turned pleading eyes towards Paul. “We’ll make stipulations. We won’t reveal what we are but we’ll stick up for him. You saw how he was treated...how long until something worse than name calling happens.”

“We can’t just take in every tragic case we find.”

“We can if they’re better drummers and more reliable than the drummer we have now,” John pointed out. “Let’s give him a chance.”

“It’ll backfire,” Paul warned. 

“Um, who’s the one who can see the future?” John waggled his fingers around his temple, eyes sparkling. “I don’t see Ringo ripping us to pieces anytime soon. Maybe something to do with an octopus but that part is fuzzy.”

“Your future telling is iffy at best,” Paul grumbled but relaxed into his chair. “He hates us you know. He hates supes.”

John nodded at that, sighing. “We won’t make it with Pete. He’s just...we need Ringo.”

Worry gnawed at his gut but Paul finally nodded. Pete was good but Ringo was so much better, he was the key they needed to really make it big. Still, what  _ could _ happen terrified him. This was a leap into an unknown that he wasn’t sure he could handle. 

He stayed worried as Brian called Ringo from the office, putting the phone on speaker so they could all hear. Part of him hoped Ringo would refuse. It was a selfish want but he knew that it would be something that protected them in the long run. 

“Mr. Starkey?” Brian began, all professionalism. “I am here with John Lennon, George Harrison, and Paul McCarney.”

“Oh...um, hi?”

“Yes, we wanted to offer you an opportunity to play for the Beatles,” his pen tapped lightly on the edge of the desk.

“Is your drummer not able to play a gig?”

“No son,” John butt in. “He means permanently. We want you to be our drummer.”

For a few long beats Paul was sure that Ringo had hung up on them. Then he let out a disbelieving laugh. “What?”

“We want you to drum for us. What do you say, are you in?”

“Me? I mean...you know that-”

“That you’re the big bad wolf? Yes, we’re aware,” John’s lips twitched. “That isn’t important. We still want you.”

There was another laugh, this time sounding a bit more surprised. “You know what that means right? There’s going to be liability fees with travel and shows and whatever. Some places didn’t even let me go in.”

“Then we won’t play there.”

“I won’t be able to play around the full moon. I’ll need somewhere secure to stay so you’d have to make sure that I was around a hospital with a retainment ward,” the humor was gone, replaced with warning. “I won’t put anyone in danger.”

Paul’s heart sank just a bit. 

“I can assure you Mr. Starkey, we will do everything in our power to make sure you and everyone else are safe,” Brian had such a kind, soothing voice. 

Damn it, now Paul understood why George wanted to help. He had a lifetime of knowing what he was, Ringo was thrown violently into it. He was scared and alone. Maybe The Beatles could be something that meant home, maybe for all of them. 

“Alright,” his voice picked up a bit of enthusiasm. “Yeah, that would be...that would be brilliant.”

So then, they really were a band of monsters. 

Just...some more secret than others.

What could go wrong?


End file.
